[FIC] In the Fire the Ghost of You (R) for uglybusiness
Type: Fanfic
Title: In the Fire the Ghost of You
Recipient: uglybusiness
Author: bold_seer
Rating: R
Warnings: Metaphysical sex.
Spoilers: Season five, at least to 5x04.
Summary: What would an angel do for you? What would you do for your angel?
Prompt: Cas and Dean have to do something magick-y, some spell that requires drawing magic symbols. Aiming for bonus points with in the process Dean temporarily acquires the ability to see Cas’ wings.
Author notes: ~ 3400 words. Any and all errors are my own. John Donne may be moving restlessly in his grave for a number of reasons; I take no responsibility for that.
In the Fire the Ghost of You
It’s seven forty-five p.m. Dean shivers, dripping wet and naked, except for the towel, lazily wrapped around him. An angel lies on his motel bed, snoring softly.
With a frown on his face, Dean adjusts the too-small towel so that it actually covers what it’s supposed to cover. It’s bizarre to say the least, seeing Castiel like this, vulnerable, almost human. Unnerving. “I, uh - I thought you’d flown off.” His voice falters, doesn’t tremble, does it?
Dean’s used to strangeness, yes, but he’s used to the ugly parts of it: the smell of rotten flesh, the sight of burnt bones. Blood and dirt and death, always, always, under his fingernails. No matter how he wants to look at the scene and imagine something normal - that it’s a tax accountant, that it’s Jimmy - that it’s some guy who’s gone to bed, drunk or overworked, without stripping off a single layer of clothing, Dean simply can’t. Angels don’t sleep and there’s an angel, lying on his bed, eyes closed, his breathing steady and regular.
“Cas?” It’s an uncertain sound, somewhere between a whisper and a growl, but the angel awakes with a jolt. Shakily, he sits up on the edge of the bed, untangles the trench coat carefully, then lets his body mould into that familiar rigid posture without a single word. An almost painful attempt at disguising his apparent need for rest, the human habit so much below him. Dean could ignore the elephant in the room and Castiel would remain the Unknowable Other. Not someone you can touch. Help. Hit. Hug. But Castiel’s silence - the way he retreats into his shell, a frightened turtle, and his gaze trails the white towel to Dean’s bare legs, to his feet - only makes Dean determined to meet his eyes.
It scares and surprises him, what he sees beneath the bewilderment, beyond that brief flicker of panic on Castiel’s face. A look he knows, has met in the bathroom mirror, having splashed his face with water to cool off the burning nightmares. Haunted, helpless. Only he was human and flawed and back from Hell, and this is a being whose home is Heaven. Was Heaven.
Dean takes a step forward, needs some concrete evidence to be convinced this is real and not some strange lucid dream. Of course, it’s useless. Chasing an apparition, something that was never truly there. Castiel is gone: no goodbyes, no nothing.
A shrug, Dean turns off the light. Sits down on the bed, although he’s still cold and wet and almost naked. He imagines Cas has left some tiny part of himself behind - a scent. That, despite everything, he can hold on to Castiel’s shadow in the overpowering darkness. It’s a comforting thought.
~~
A week later Castiel finds them after a hunt, standing inside an old and abandoned Louisiana warehouse. Sam seems startled by the interruption - fluttering wings and Castiel’s just there, a third little figure in the vast hall - more startled, perhaps, than he should be. Dean rolls his eyes to signal that the appearing-disappearing act is getting old. Magic 101, really.
“How -” Sam and Dean start together, echoes of a life spent in each other’s company. The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch slightly; his brother wears his deep, serious thoughts face today. Dean looks at Castiel.
Your quest? The Pelican state, angel wings and God - there’s a connection, right? But Dean’s mind, already working on the obvious puns, notes something else of import, something he sure as hell isn’t going to crack jokes about. His angelic buddy is looking awfully un-angelic, with the shoulder slump of any Tom, Dick or Harry, and shadows on his face like smudged charcoal. The question dies on Dean’s lips within two seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his brother shift restlessly. “Bobby.” Sam sounds surprised at his own realisation, minor though it is. “Of course.”
Castiel ignores Sam without politeness and pretence. “I am weakened,” he says, gaze focused on Dean, always on Dean, the focal point of Castiel’s universe. Alpha and Omega. His voice is strained to the point of breaking, clouded by inside-out weariness that reminds Dean of another time. Another Castiel - the one with the washed-out hippie appearance. The one who revelled in bitterness, but faced the world with a permasmile.
And, as Cas gives them the four one one on the mission that’s gone nowhere, Dean finally understands. What some sacrifices mean. The cons of being a cast-out angel. That the past is the past, but the future becomes the present. Castiel may retain his wings and bear no mark on his body to show the separation from the Heavenly Host, but his grace is fading fast. A falling angel, dangerously close to the ground.
“Being cut off from Heaven can’t be easy, but what you’re suggesting -” Dean hears awe and suspicion and sympathy, everything at once in his brother’s voice. “It’s powerful magic,” Sam says softly, hesitantly. “Dark.”
Dean’s eyes are fixed on Castiel, his quiet face, his lips - a raw, rose red colour. Tracking every tiny movement, as if the faith of the world would depend on a blink or a breath. He expects a violent reaction, a heated remark that’ll turn the discussion into an I did - you did dance, but instead Castiel seems to shrink a little more. “I couldn’t heal your friend.” It’s not an angry voice, it’s defeated.
Sam looks uncomfortable. “Nobody blames you for not healing Bobby. Cas.” The familiar nickname doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as with Dean, it’s still more like an add-on, but Dean’s pleased to notice Sam’s getting there. He’ll pass any verbal wrestling match between his brother and his angel. His angel.
“I can’t. Fight. Like this,” Castiel says between uneven breaths and turns away from Sam. There’s something desperately sad about the way he looks at Dean with big, pleading puppy eyes, and Dean feels a sharp pain in his chest. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
And what can you do when an angel begs you for a favour? When someone you care about begs you for a favour? Dean sighs and raises a hand in surrender. “Yeah. Okay, just give us a minute.”
~~
The miserably cloudy sky and the tired yard make none happier. Sam stands with his arms crossed and an unflattering frown of his face. The red gash on his left cheek - courtesy of the monster of the week - completes the cheerless appearance. “He feels useless without his powers,” he says. “And I know he shouldn’t. Believe me, I get it. But blood magic and angelic mojo, Dean, this is serious. If it goes wrong -”
Dean raises an eyebrow, a little affronted, perhaps, on Castiel’s behalf. “You don’t think he gets a try, at least?” He keeps his hands in the pockets of his coat. It’s a cold day.
“It’s not that.” Sam’s shaking his head rather furiously. “We should look at this objectively,” he starts slowly, his voice far too patronising for Dean’s liking. “But I know you won’t. You won’t because -”
Match point to Sam Winchester.
“Cas is a friend, so?” Dean says, more defensive than he has reason to be. The sentence comes so naturally that it is as if the words Cas and friend are now automatically connected in Dean’s mind, and one can’t exist without the other. As if he’s forgotten that he once thought of Castiel as a threat, an annoyance, borderline stalker. Dean’s let go of his first impression, almost completely. Despite the nickname and a generally courteous attitude, Sam hasn’t let go of Dean’s first impression, Dean realises. Not entirely.
“What am I supposed to tell him, huh, Sam? Tough luck, buddy - you aren’t really our problem. The guy went against his family for us, for humans. Isn’t that worth a damned thing? And now -”
You are the only one who’ll help me. Such a broken whisper, such a broken look in his eyes, and you can’t help but say yes.
“He hasn’t got a whole lot of options.”
Sam sighs in defeat - one of those my brother is an idiot sighs. “Fine. Go and have your tête-à-tête. Just don’t do anything reckless. Or stupid. Or recklessly stupid.”
And Dean mouths when have I ever?
~~
“Many cultures share the belief that the soul of a being is in its blood.” Castiel speaks in his hoarse and calm voice, and if it weren’t for the grim expression and the long silver knife in his hand, he would have the look of a lecturing university professor. “There’s truth to it, but magic like this is - unreliable and dangerous. I’m not certain it will work.”
The fine art of sugar-coating is unknown to angels, or at least to this one, Dean knows that. Yet it always surprises him to hear someone else be so indifferent to a possible life-and-death situation. In fact, the bluntness of Castiel’s speech resembles the attitude of a hunter. Almost. Dean rolls his eyes at the thought. “You sure need to work on your sales pitch, Cas.” Clears his throat, awkwardly. “If this is a two-man job -” Except that one of the men is an angel, his brain corrects him with a ten-second delay. Big fucking semantic difference. “- how come I’m the lucky guy?”
Uh, because you volunteered, moron?
Castiel lets the blade travel down his own forearm and a tiny white scratch appears on the pale skin. “You play a crucial part in me becoming - angeled-up, as you would say.” But the half-smile that lingers on his lips never meets his eyes, and his reply doesn’t really answer anything.
Suddenly and with ruthless, inhuman determination, Castiel slashes his palm. At the moment the knife goes into his skin and flesh, he bites his lower lip, hard enough to taste blood. The tiniest of gasps, almost as if he actually feels an unexpected sting of pain. Maybe he does, Dean thinks. That body belongs to him now, doesn’t it? Maybe he feels it, a sensation that must be terribly overwhelming, more real than anything in millennia. Truly alive for the first time - and you notice it through pain, not pleasure.
Transfixed, Dean stares at the the deep red drops, falling, falling. Déjà vu, Heaven’s Green Room, a warehouse on Earth. Only surely, the parts they play are different now? Surely, the path they’re on is different now, if nothing else. Still, blood and old magic - sacrifices, always. “Your hand.” A simple command snaps Dean out of his trance and he gives Cas his hand, obedient and trusting, how could he not be?
Castiel cuts Dean’s hand, too, a little more gently, but with some force. Dean doesn’t flinch in pain, merely looks at the wound that forms. He does flinch, however, when Castiel presses their palms together, mixing his and Dean’s blood. Then Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand and sinks to his knees swiftly, like some holy man in search of deliverance. His index fingers draws graceful red lines in the dirt - a complex pattern of a circle with Enochian symbols - while he chants something in a husky voice.
If Dean were a woman or another kind of man he’d go weak in the knees at that sound and that sight. But as he’s definitely not a woman and not attracted to guys, dammit, he tries, in vain, to concentrate not on the audio-visuals, but on the possible meaning of the words. To ignore the connotations the murmurs awaken. Never mind he doesn’t grasp the actual syllables. Never mind the resident language geek is not present, but driving back to the motel in a stolen car, probably listening to sunny pop songs on the radio, as a contrast to the Apocalypse.
Dean’s starting to feel a little hazy. Human blood and human-angel blood is, apparently, either a very apt combination or a very toxic one. The whole warehouse feels different now, the air more heavy - but brighter. As if a true heavenly force, something mightier than a mere angel in a vessel, would at last grace Dean with its presence. Light shines from the blood stains on the floor and gathers around Castiel. Takes the shape of -
For a moment, wings. They’re ethereal and otherworldly, not the black shadows in the barn, but actual wings, made of light. Blazing feathers, glorious and frightening at the same time. A rain of fire. Dean wants to keep the image, store it in his mind, it’s beautiful, but he never could hold on to that which was most precious to him. The vision is slipping as the outline of the wings blurs far too soon, dissolves, and it’s just light everywhere and the warehouse is filled with it. He is filled with it, light and heat, and it’s almost like - having sex?
Castiel, Dean thinks. Castiel is inside him, pulsing through him, filling every corner of his head and heart and veins. Hallelujah, blowing trumpets and an angelic choir. Dean thinks he might be hard - the really fucking my dick is on fire kind of hard, trapped against the harsh fabric of his jeans - but somehow, he’s so removed from his body that his arousal seems almost unimportant. Disappointingly human. There is nothing human about the warmth of Castiel inside Dean, because no human partner could ever reach that far, to his very soul, and fill him up so completely. No human could ever be enough. It’s unreal, it’s a bliss, it burns. Disjointed sounds and images in his head: fragments of memories, little touches, sighs and looks. He walks away, he calls him back, he walks away, he lets him go, but they always find their way back, always. A wordless connection anchors them to each other, draws them home. Twin compasses. One.
I did it - all of it - for you. For you, Dean. You. Dean feels himself slowly melt into a pool of nothingness, climax into Nirvana. One second, there’s the sweet taste of the sugar crust of an apple pie; he doesn’t know why he would think of that, it’s just right, it comes to him. Then everything - sight, sound, taste, thought - leaves him. Utter peace and tranquility and -
darkness.
~~
Dean opens his eyes with a snap. He’s kneeling on the cold stone floor, sweaty palms pressed against his forehead. Unsure if he’s been out cold for a minute or an hour, he rises from the uncomfortable position with a groan. Legs trembling, embarrassingly spent, as if he would’ve had the most intense work-out of his life. Or some really great, really rough sex.
Wait.
Oh.
Cas.
Castiel lies on his back some twenty feet in front of him, a broken rag doll that’s just been tossed there, arms and legs spread wide. The sand-coloured trench is draped around him in a mockery of the wings Dean just caught a glimpse of; he’s drowning in it. And he isn’t moving.
No no no.
The world might end with a whimper and all that shit, but Castiel, Angel of the Lord, can’t end like this in a fucking warehouse. He said it was dangerous, but it wasn’t supposed to - the ritual wasn’t supposed drain Castiel of his powers. Or of his life, says a little voice. It should’ve strengthened him, made him whole again. A real angel, back to his full glory.
“Cas!” Dean hears his own lone voice, hoarse and desperate, and then the cruel echo of it, nothing more. He’s moving sluggishly. It’s not the same kind of panic as when Sam died or anything like it - nothing can be like it - but it is mind-numbing, just to think that -
That -
He died, it can’t happen again.
Can’t. Dean would rather -
But maybe there really is a God, and maybe miracles do happen. Someone breathed life into Castiel, once, when all hope was lost. And someone - Someone? - does it again. One second the body Dean holds tight is an empty shell without a pulse. Then, unexpectedly, Castiel coughs.
“Hey,” Dean whispers gently. “Easy. Easy.” It’s something you would say to a frightened horse, not to an angel -
to your - your friend. Friend, yes - no. No, Dean isn’t going to think about any of that right now, not when Castiel is - whatever he is. “You okay? Angeled-up enough?”
Castiel doesn’t seem hurt, but confusion colours his face. “I don’t feel different.” Dean hears more than a trace of sadness in his voice, at what he has lost forever, it appears. Yet he imagines there’s relief, too. It doesn’t have to be unbearable to exist as a human angel. It’s not like Castiel can ever truly go back, is it? To the orders all the time mode. Unquestioning faith in twisted commands, letting innocents suffer. It doesn’t have to end with broken bonds, betrayal and bullets. Dean swore he’d stop that future from ever taking place, not let his own life, Sam’s and Cas’ be taken from them. Castiel can be a human and an angel. He’s different. They are all exceptions to the rule.
Only this is all too serious, too soon. Dean doesn’t talk or think about his feelings and definitely doesn’t do serious. Brooding maybe, but not serious. Never earnest, in the exposing your heart way. That’s the hard way that leads to tears, so he laughs. Laughs at Death and makes questionable jokes at the most inappropriate of times. Like right now.
“A wing-flasher, huh? Wouldn’t have taken you for a guy like that.”
To Dean’s defence, he really just tries to lighten the mood. For Castiel’s sake, as well. Because they all could do with a laugh in the midst of all this misery. It’s not much, but he thinks he sees a small smile play on Castiel’s lips.
A genuine one this time.
~~
It’s seven forty-five p.m. Dean shivers, dripping wet and naked, except for the towel, lazily wrapped around him. An angel lies on his motel bed, blue eyes sharp and alert.
With a frown on his face, Dean looks down and then up, lets the too-small towel hang loosely on his hips and cover what it covers. It’s bizarre to say the least, seeing Castiel like this, vulnerable, almost human. Unnerving. But not. “I, uh - I thought you’d flown off.” His voice falters, doesn’t tremble, does it?
Dean’s used to strangeness, yes, but he’s not used to whatever this is, this thing between them that won’t just vanish. And it scares him more than any imaginable monster, or any bloody death. That this - this right here - is his fleeting chance for something. That it’s going to pass before he realises to grab it, fight tooth and nail to hold on to it. Angels don’t happen to people like Dean, yet there’s an angel on his bed, waiting for him.
“Cas?” It’s an uncertain sound, somewhere between a whisper and a growl, but the angel sits up and looks at Dean, really looks at him. He gulps, there’s a faint colour on his cheeks, and in some way, he resembles a nervous virgin with whom the bad boy plans to have his wicked way. Something pliant and corruptible that’ll break apart under you. But Dean knows it’s not that simple. He can read something else in Cas’ look - has become an expert regarding Castiel’s enigmatic expressions - and sees hunger and forcefulness written on his face. Castiel possesses a vague otherness that allows him to just calmly sit there with his clothes on, scrutinise every inch of Dean’s naked body. As good as naked body. Like he owns him. As if he has the power to make Dean submit to him completely, like a storm can bend a tree to its will. That tantalising paradox, the thought of giving yourself fully to someone who gives themself to you - God help him, it turns Dean on.
And when Dean’s towel drops to the ground at some point - by accident or not - Castiel says nothing, utters no warning that this is wrong, a sin, it’s not supposed to go this way, this far. Because neither cares. Because both want to take what’s on offer, need it like they’ve never needed anything before. Heaven and Hell be damned.
When the sun rises, the towel lies there still, on the lonely motel carpet.
Forgotten ashes of an old fire.
Title: In the Fire the Ghost of You
Recipient: uglybusiness
Author: bold_seer
Rating: R
Warnings: Metaphysical sex.
Spoilers: Season five, at least to 5x04.
Summary: What would an angel do for you? What would you do for your angel?
Prompt: Cas and Dean have to do something magick-y, some spell that requires drawing magic symbols. Aiming for bonus points with in the process Dean temporarily acquires the ability to see Cas’ wings.
Author notes: ~ 3400 words. Any and all errors are my own. John Donne may be moving restlessly in his grave for a number of reasons; I take no responsibility for that.
In the Fire the Ghost of You
It’s seven forty-five p.m. Dean shivers, dripping wet and naked, except for the towel, lazily wrapped around him. An angel lies on his motel bed, snoring softly.
With a frown on his face, Dean adjusts the too-small towel so that it actually covers what it’s supposed to cover. It’s bizarre to say the least, seeing Castiel like this, vulnerable, almost human. Unnerving. “I, uh - I thought you’d flown off.” His voice falters, doesn’t tremble, does it?
Dean’s used to strangeness, yes, but he’s used to the ugly parts of it: the smell of rotten flesh, the sight of burnt bones. Blood and dirt and death, always, always, under his fingernails. No matter how he wants to look at the scene and imagine something normal - that it’s a tax accountant, that it’s Jimmy - that it’s some guy who’s gone to bed, drunk or overworked, without stripping off a single layer of clothing, Dean simply can’t. Angels don’t sleep and there’s an angel, lying on his bed, eyes closed, his breathing steady and regular.
“Cas?” It’s an uncertain sound, somewhere between a whisper and a growl, but the angel awakes with a jolt. Shakily, he sits up on the edge of the bed, untangles the trench coat carefully, then lets his body mould into that familiar rigid posture without a single word. An almost painful attempt at disguising his apparent need for rest, the human habit so much below him. Dean could ignore the elephant in the room and Castiel would remain the Unknowable Other. Not someone you can touch. Help. Hit. Hug. But Castiel’s silence - the way he retreats into his shell, a frightened turtle, and his gaze trails the white towel to Dean’s bare legs, to his feet - only makes Dean determined to meet his eyes.
It scares and surprises him, what he sees beneath the bewilderment, beyond that brief flicker of panic on Castiel’s face. A look he knows, has met in the bathroom mirror, having splashed his face with water to cool off the burning nightmares. Haunted, helpless. Only he was human and flawed and back from Hell, and this is a being whose home is Heaven. Was Heaven.
Dean takes a step forward, needs some concrete evidence to be convinced this is real and not some strange lucid dream. Of course, it’s useless. Chasing an apparition, something that was never truly there. Castiel is gone: no goodbyes, no nothing.
A shrug, Dean turns off the light. Sits down on the bed, although he’s still cold and wet and almost naked. He imagines Cas has left some tiny part of himself behind - a scent. That, despite everything, he can hold on to Castiel’s shadow in the overpowering darkness. It’s a comforting thought.
~~
A week later Castiel finds them after a hunt, standing inside an old and abandoned Louisiana warehouse. Sam seems startled by the interruption - fluttering wings and Castiel’s just there, a third little figure in the vast hall - more startled, perhaps, than he should be. Dean rolls his eyes to signal that the appearing-disappearing act is getting old. Magic 101, really.
“How -” Sam and Dean start together, echoes of a life spent in each other’s company. The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch slightly; his brother wears his deep, serious thoughts face today. Dean looks at Castiel.
Your quest? The Pelican state, angel wings and God - there’s a connection, right? But Dean’s mind, already working on the obvious puns, notes something else of import, something he sure as hell isn’t going to crack jokes about. His angelic buddy is looking awfully un-angelic, with the shoulder slump of any Tom, Dick or Harry, and shadows on his face like smudged charcoal. The question dies on Dean’s lips within two seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his brother shift restlessly. “Bobby.” Sam sounds surprised at his own realisation, minor though it is. “Of course.”
Castiel ignores Sam without politeness and pretence. “I am weakened,” he says, gaze focused on Dean, always on Dean, the focal point of Castiel’s universe. Alpha and Omega. His voice is strained to the point of breaking, clouded by inside-out weariness that reminds Dean of another time. Another Castiel - the one with the washed-out hippie appearance. The one who revelled in bitterness, but faced the world with a permasmile.
And, as Cas gives them the four one one on the mission that’s gone nowhere, Dean finally understands. What some sacrifices mean. The cons of being a cast-out angel. That the past is the past, but the future becomes the present. Castiel may retain his wings and bear no mark on his body to show the separation from the Heavenly Host, but his grace is fading fast. A falling angel, dangerously close to the ground.
“Being cut off from Heaven can’t be easy, but what you’re suggesting -” Dean hears awe and suspicion and sympathy, everything at once in his brother’s voice. “It’s powerful magic,” Sam says softly, hesitantly. “Dark.”
Dean’s eyes are fixed on Castiel, his quiet face, his lips - a raw, rose red colour. Tracking every tiny movement, as if the faith of the world would depend on a blink or a breath. He expects a violent reaction, a heated remark that’ll turn the discussion into an I did - you did dance, but instead Castiel seems to shrink a little more. “I couldn’t heal your friend.” It’s not an angry voice, it’s defeated.
Sam looks uncomfortable. “Nobody blames you for not healing Bobby. Cas.” The familiar nickname doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as with Dean, it’s still more like an add-on, but Dean’s pleased to notice Sam’s getting there. He’ll pass any verbal wrestling match between his brother and his angel. His angel.
“I can’t. Fight. Like this,” Castiel says between uneven breaths and turns away from Sam. There’s something desperately sad about the way he looks at Dean with big, pleading puppy eyes, and Dean feels a sharp pain in his chest. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
And what can you do when an angel begs you for a favour? When someone you care about begs you for a favour? Dean sighs and raises a hand in surrender. “Yeah. Okay, just give us a minute.”
~~
The miserably cloudy sky and the tired yard make none happier. Sam stands with his arms crossed and an unflattering frown of his face. The red gash on his left cheek - courtesy of the monster of the week - completes the cheerless appearance. “He feels useless without his powers,” he says. “And I know he shouldn’t. Believe me, I get it. But blood magic and angelic mojo, Dean, this is serious. If it goes wrong -”
Dean raises an eyebrow, a little affronted, perhaps, on Castiel’s behalf. “You don’t think he gets a try, at least?” He keeps his hands in the pockets of his coat. It’s a cold day.
“It’s not that.” Sam’s shaking his head rather furiously. “We should look at this objectively,” he starts slowly, his voice far too patronising for Dean’s liking. “But I know you won’t. You won’t because -”
Match point to Sam Winchester.
“Cas is a friend, so?” Dean says, more defensive than he has reason to be. The sentence comes so naturally that it is as if the words Cas and friend are now automatically connected in Dean’s mind, and one can’t exist without the other. As if he’s forgotten that he once thought of Castiel as a threat, an annoyance, borderline stalker. Dean’s let go of his first impression, almost completely. Despite the nickname and a generally courteous attitude, Sam hasn’t let go of Dean’s first impression, Dean realises. Not entirely.
“What am I supposed to tell him, huh, Sam? Tough luck, buddy - you aren’t really our problem. The guy went against his family for us, for humans. Isn’t that worth a damned thing? And now -”
You are the only one who’ll help me. Such a broken whisper, such a broken look in his eyes, and you can’t help but say yes.
“He hasn’t got a whole lot of options.”
Sam sighs in defeat - one of those my brother is an idiot sighs. “Fine. Go and have your tête-à-tête. Just don’t do anything reckless. Or stupid. Or recklessly stupid.”
And Dean mouths when have I ever?
~~
“Many cultures share the belief that the soul of a being is in its blood.” Castiel speaks in his hoarse and calm voice, and if it weren’t for the grim expression and the long silver knife in his hand, he would have the look of a lecturing university professor. “There’s truth to it, but magic like this is - unreliable and dangerous. I’m not certain it will work.”
The fine art of sugar-coating is unknown to angels, or at least to this one, Dean knows that. Yet it always surprises him to hear someone else be so indifferent to a possible life-and-death situation. In fact, the bluntness of Castiel’s speech resembles the attitude of a hunter. Almost. Dean rolls his eyes at the thought. “You sure need to work on your sales pitch, Cas.” Clears his throat, awkwardly. “If this is a two-man job -” Except that one of the men is an angel, his brain corrects him with a ten-second delay. Big fucking semantic difference. “- how come I’m the lucky guy?”
Uh, because you volunteered, moron?
Castiel lets the blade travel down his own forearm and a tiny white scratch appears on the pale skin. “You play a crucial part in me becoming - angeled-up, as you would say.” But the half-smile that lingers on his lips never meets his eyes, and his reply doesn’t really answer anything.
Suddenly and with ruthless, inhuman determination, Castiel slashes his palm. At the moment the knife goes into his skin and flesh, he bites his lower lip, hard enough to taste blood. The tiniest of gasps, almost as if he actually feels an unexpected sting of pain. Maybe he does, Dean thinks. That body belongs to him now, doesn’t it? Maybe he feels it, a sensation that must be terribly overwhelming, more real than anything in millennia. Truly alive for the first time - and you notice it through pain, not pleasure.
Transfixed, Dean stares at the the deep red drops, falling, falling. Déjà vu, Heaven’s Green Room, a warehouse on Earth. Only surely, the parts they play are different now? Surely, the path they’re on is different now, if nothing else. Still, blood and old magic - sacrifices, always. “Your hand.” A simple command snaps Dean out of his trance and he gives Cas his hand, obedient and trusting, how could he not be?
Castiel cuts Dean’s hand, too, a little more gently, but with some force. Dean doesn’t flinch in pain, merely looks at the wound that forms. He does flinch, however, when Castiel presses their palms together, mixing his and Dean’s blood. Then Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand and sinks to his knees swiftly, like some holy man in search of deliverance. His index fingers draws graceful red lines in the dirt - a complex pattern of a circle with Enochian symbols - while he chants something in a husky voice.
If Dean were a woman or another kind of man he’d go weak in the knees at that sound and that sight. But as he’s definitely not a woman and not attracted to guys, dammit, he tries, in vain, to concentrate not on the audio-visuals, but on the possible meaning of the words. To ignore the connotations the murmurs awaken. Never mind he doesn’t grasp the actual syllables. Never mind the resident language geek is not present, but driving back to the motel in a stolen car, probably listening to sunny pop songs on the radio, as a contrast to the Apocalypse.
Dean’s starting to feel a little hazy. Human blood and human-angel blood is, apparently, either a very apt combination or a very toxic one. The whole warehouse feels different now, the air more heavy - but brighter. As if a true heavenly force, something mightier than a mere angel in a vessel, would at last grace Dean with its presence. Light shines from the blood stains on the floor and gathers around Castiel. Takes the shape of -
For a moment, wings. They’re ethereal and otherworldly, not the black shadows in the barn, but actual wings, made of light. Blazing feathers, glorious and frightening at the same time. A rain of fire. Dean wants to keep the image, store it in his mind, it’s beautiful, but he never could hold on to that which was most precious to him. The vision is slipping as the outline of the wings blurs far too soon, dissolves, and it’s just light everywhere and the warehouse is filled with it. He is filled with it, light and heat, and it’s almost like - having sex?
Castiel, Dean thinks. Castiel is inside him, pulsing through him, filling every corner of his head and heart and veins. Hallelujah, blowing trumpets and an angelic choir. Dean thinks he might be hard - the really fucking my dick is on fire kind of hard, trapped against the harsh fabric of his jeans - but somehow, he’s so removed from his body that his arousal seems almost unimportant. Disappointingly human. There is nothing human about the warmth of Castiel inside Dean, because no human partner could ever reach that far, to his very soul, and fill him up so completely. No human could ever be enough. It’s unreal, it’s a bliss, it burns. Disjointed sounds and images in his head: fragments of memories, little touches, sighs and looks. He walks away, he calls him back, he walks away, he lets him go, but they always find their way back, always. A wordless connection anchors them to each other, draws them home. Twin compasses. One.
I did it - all of it - for you. For you, Dean. You. Dean feels himself slowly melt into a pool of nothingness, climax into Nirvana. One second, there’s the sweet taste of the sugar crust of an apple pie; he doesn’t know why he would think of that, it’s just right, it comes to him. Then everything - sight, sound, taste, thought - leaves him. Utter peace and tranquility and -
darkness.
~~
Dean opens his eyes with a snap. He’s kneeling on the cold stone floor, sweaty palms pressed against his forehead. Unsure if he’s been out cold for a minute or an hour, he rises from the uncomfortable position with a groan. Legs trembling, embarrassingly spent, as if he would’ve had the most intense work-out of his life. Or some really great, really rough sex.
Wait.
Oh.
Cas.
Castiel lies on his back some twenty feet in front of him, a broken rag doll that’s just been tossed there, arms and legs spread wide. The sand-coloured trench is draped around him in a mockery of the wings Dean just caught a glimpse of; he’s drowning in it. And he isn’t moving.
No no no.
The world might end with a whimper and all that shit, but Castiel, Angel of the Lord, can’t end like this in a fucking warehouse. He said it was dangerous, but it wasn’t supposed to - the ritual wasn’t supposed drain Castiel of his powers. Or of his life, says a little voice. It should’ve strengthened him, made him whole again. A real angel, back to his full glory.
“Cas!” Dean hears his own lone voice, hoarse and desperate, and then the cruel echo of it, nothing more. He’s moving sluggishly. It’s not the same kind of panic as when Sam died or anything like it - nothing can be like it - but it is mind-numbing, just to think that -
That -
He died, it can’t happen again.
Can’t. Dean would rather -
But maybe there really is a God, and maybe miracles do happen. Someone breathed life into Castiel, once, when all hope was lost. And someone - Someone? - does it again. One second the body Dean holds tight is an empty shell without a pulse. Then, unexpectedly, Castiel coughs.
“Hey,” Dean whispers gently. “Easy. Easy.” It’s something you would say to a frightened horse, not to an angel -
to your - your friend. Friend, yes - no. No, Dean isn’t going to think about any of that right now, not when Castiel is - whatever he is. “You okay? Angeled-up enough?”
Castiel doesn’t seem hurt, but confusion colours his face. “I don’t feel different.” Dean hears more than a trace of sadness in his voice, at what he has lost forever, it appears. Yet he imagines there’s relief, too. It doesn’t have to be unbearable to exist as a human angel. It’s not like Castiel can ever truly go back, is it? To the orders all the time mode. Unquestioning faith in twisted commands, letting innocents suffer. It doesn’t have to end with broken bonds, betrayal and bullets. Dean swore he’d stop that future from ever taking place, not let his own life, Sam’s and Cas’ be taken from them. Castiel can be a human and an angel. He’s different. They are all exceptions to the rule.
Only this is all too serious, too soon. Dean doesn’t talk or think about his feelings and definitely doesn’t do serious. Brooding maybe, but not serious. Never earnest, in the exposing your heart way. That’s the hard way that leads to tears, so he laughs. Laughs at Death and makes questionable jokes at the most inappropriate of times. Like right now.
“A wing-flasher, huh? Wouldn’t have taken you for a guy like that.”
To Dean’s defence, he really just tries to lighten the mood. For Castiel’s sake, as well. Because they all could do with a laugh in the midst of all this misery. It’s not much, but he thinks he sees a small smile play on Castiel’s lips.
A genuine one this time.
~~
It’s seven forty-five p.m. Dean shivers, dripping wet and naked, except for the towel, lazily wrapped around him. An angel lies on his motel bed, blue eyes sharp and alert.
With a frown on his face, Dean looks down and then up, lets the too-small towel hang loosely on his hips and cover what it covers. It’s bizarre to say the least, seeing Castiel like this, vulnerable, almost human. Unnerving. But not. “I, uh - I thought you’d flown off.” His voice falters, doesn’t tremble, does it?
Dean’s used to strangeness, yes, but he’s not used to whatever this is, this thing between them that won’t just vanish. And it scares him more than any imaginable monster, or any bloody death. That this - this right here - is his fleeting chance for something. That it’s going to pass before he realises to grab it, fight tooth and nail to hold on to it. Angels don’t happen to people like Dean, yet there’s an angel on his bed, waiting for him.
“Cas?” It’s an uncertain sound, somewhere between a whisper and a growl, but the angel sits up and looks at Dean, really looks at him. He gulps, there’s a faint colour on his cheeks, and in some way, he resembles a nervous virgin with whom the bad boy plans to have his wicked way. Something pliant and corruptible that’ll break apart under you. But Dean knows it’s not that simple. He can read something else in Cas’ look - has become an expert regarding Castiel’s enigmatic expressions - and sees hunger and forcefulness written on his face. Castiel possesses a vague otherness that allows him to just calmly sit there with his clothes on, scrutinise every inch of Dean’s naked body. As good as naked body. Like he owns him. As if he has the power to make Dean submit to him completely, like a storm can bend a tree to its will. That tantalising paradox, the thought of giving yourself fully to someone who gives themself to you - God help him, it turns Dean on.
And when Dean’s towel drops to the ground at some point - by accident or not - Castiel says nothing, utters no warning that this is wrong, a sin, it’s not supposed to go this way, this far. Because neither cares. Because both want to take what’s on offer, need it like they’ve never needed anything before. Heaven and Hell be damned.
When the sun rises, the towel lies there still, on the lonely motel carpet.
Forgotten ashes of an old fire.